


Rumpelstileskin

by Nny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, M/M, Monster of the Week, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Work In Progress, five times fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five names Stiles has been called (and one time someone got it right).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bilinski

**Author's Note:**

> Set nebulously season 2ish.

Stiles is still attempting to lever his pads up over his head without jarring any of his bruises when Scott drops onto the locker room bench next to him, dressed and dripping water and dimpling all over the place. Stiles is pretty familiar with what that means. They're not even _dating_ now. 

“I'm guessing you want out of the chemistry cram session at mine,” he says, slumping back against the wall and wincing as it jars something wrong. (Isaac's apparently having some problem gauging the speed of lacrosse balls, right now, so Scott had volunteered Stiles for goal this practice. Stiles is pretty much saving up favours for something seriously huge, now, like Scott's first born or something). 

“Allison -”

“Just -” Stiles waves a hand weakly at the door. “Just go, okay. Spare me. We can talk through your major misconceptions at Derek's later.” 

Scott frowns, obviously confused. 

“You're coming to that? I thought it was just -” he pauses and takes a less than subtle look left and right before leaning in to whisper, “ _wolf stuff_.” Seriously, sometimes Scott is like a cartoon super-villain. 

“Yeah...?” Stiles says, not clear what the problem is here until the look changes to something that looks horribly like _sympathy_ and it is genuinely less painful to sit back up and yank his lacrosse pads over his head in one awkward movement. 

“I mean,” Scott says quickly, “I'm sure you're still invited, Derek won't mind you coming along,” while literally everything about his voice, posture, the tilt of his head screams the exact opposite. Stiles is pretty sure Scott forgets sometimes that, sure, Stiles can't smell it but they have been friends since they were eight years old and there is nothing that he doesn't know about Scott's lying-face. It makes sense; things are still horribly strained, and Stiles gets that they need bonding time as a reluctantly-allied pack. 

“It's cool,” Stiles says, “it's not like I don't have a million things I can get done without your sorry wolf ass holding me back.” 

Scott is apparently not as familiar with Stiles' lying-face. He bounds out, yelling something about tomorrow over his shoulder, and Stiles grins ruefully and shakes his head before pushing himself carefully to his feet and heading for the showers, letting the hot water pound at his tender flesh until the plumbing gives a long rattling groan and the pelting water turns to rusted-mould smelling ice in a second. 

“Shit!” he yells, the word startled out of him. 

“Language!” someone yells back. Stiles growls something under his breath and wraps a towel around his waist, cursing whoever hadn't joined the general stampede for the parking lot once the game was done. He heads for his locker, rummages for a shirt and nearly jumps out of his skin at the hand on his shoulder. 

“Bilinski!” 

Stiles jerks upright, watching with resignation as his stick falls forward and clatters to the floor but frankly more concerned at keeping a firm hold on his towel right now. 

“Nice move, Bilinski.” 

“It's Stilinski, coach.”

“Stilinski?” 

“Stiles,” he says, shrugging awkwardly and helpfully dislodging the the coach's hand. 

“You know what I hear when you say Stiles, Bilinski?” The coach's voice is slow, contemplative, and Stiles kind of hates to think. 

“No, Coach?” 

“I hear 'brilliant, but unfocused,' Bilinski. I hear 'complete lack of natural co-ordination'. I hear the pained whimpering death rattle of my soul when forced to read way too much detail about the history of a surgical procedure on the _penis_.” 

Stiles winces and hunches his shoulders. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that, Coach.” 

“Stiles is -” Coach Finstock gestures, something incomprehensible that nevertheless manages to be completely unflattering, then claps him hard on the back. “Now _Bilinski_ , Bilinski's going places. Shows occasional ability to not suck quite as hard as Greenberg. Has a real shot of making first line, if he keeps up the hard work.” The coach pulls his hand back so he can tap his nose with one finger, give an exaggerated wink. 

Stiles' jaw drops open. 

“...Seriously?”

“Seriously. So let's forget about Stiles, shall we? Stiles is a loser. I'm pretty sure we can do better than Stiles.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, a fledgling grin starting to form on his face. “Wow.” 

“No guarantees without focus, Bilinski. So what have we learned?”

“Er,” Stiles says, then his mouth twists a little. “Stiles is a loser?”

“That's my boy. Keep repeating that to yourself. Now what the hell are you doing? Get some clothes on. You're starting to go blue.” 

Stiles grabs his clothes, yanks on a long-sleeved shirt under his t shirt, pulls on a shirt and a hooded sweater over that because the shower seems to have stolen all the heat from his blood; he's glad of it when he gets outside, the wind picking up around him.

He's on his way across the parking lot and automatically starts typing out a message on his phone – first _line_ , man – when he remembers that Scott's with Allison and won't exactly appreciate the interruption. And then he's got Derek's, later. He taps his phone against his teeth, considers texting his dad (only he's on nights, right now, he's probably left for work already) and stows it in the glove box instead, the blue jeep the only car still in the student lot. 

It smells overcooked inside, warmed by the last of the summer sun that's refused to give in and make way for fall, already. Stiles rubs his hands together and then taps them against the steering wheel, wondering how the hell the plastic can register as so warm while doing absolutely nothing about the blocks of ice that Stiles' fingers are starting to feel like. He's almost glad he doesn't have to hang out at the draughty Hale house, or out in the woods wherever they're doing their 'wolf stuff'. A shower – hot, this time – and bed sounds about perfect to him. He catches his eye in the rear-view mirror and grins with half his mouth.

“Stiles is a loser,” he says, before rolling his eyes and starting the engine.


	2. Little Red

Stiles drives home on autopilot, gets into the house and heads straight for the stairs, foregoing food in favour of just crawling between the sheets. He barely stops long enough to kick off his sneakers. The layers of clothes and blankets make a nest just warm enough and even the aches and pains from lacrosse can’t persuade him to stay awake another second.

It makes it all the more confusing when he wakes up fully dressed, shirts twisted under him and hood wrapped around his neck tightly enough that he feels like he can’t drag in another breath, like there’s a weight on his chest that’s pinning him to the bed.

He chokes on nothing, on the stench of bad dreams and mildew, and pushes himself half-upright, rubbing at his chest as reassurance that there’s nothing holding him down.

For a second he’s caught up in his dream, still, patch of shadow in the corner of his room and red lights placed like eyes; he’s had these dreams before and they always wake him up gasping for breath, in very different ways. (For the record, he prefers the one where it’s Derek – even though it’s difficult to look him in the eyes for a day or two after). These lights aren’t harsh red, though, the stop sign alpha glare in the darkness. They’re more like banked glows, a gentler light but no less threatening. Stiles is bracing himself for the lunge for the light switch, the door, perfected through years of under-bed monsters, when the lights fade into the blackness without trace.

He blinks a couple of times against the grainy grey of the moonlight but there’s no sign of anything that isn’t where it should be, and even the vice around his chest has fallen away as if it had never been there. As bad as dreams get there’s generally worse waiting for him in the real world, these days, so Stiles allows the undertow of exhaustion to drag him back under.

*

Stiles _wakes up_ exhausted, which has to be the worst feeling that doesn’t involve actual bodily harm, with the stone-cold certainty in the pit of his stomach that he’s late. There’s something in the quality of the light falling across his bed that’s calling him an idiot.

It's almost too much effort for him to just roll himself out of bed, his limbs having gained the gravitational mass of a smallish star overnight. He strips off yesterday's clothes and settles for layers and a liberal application of Axe in place of a shower. He's cold enough that he doesn't want to deal with nudity any longer than he has to, which is probably an attitude that's safest for everyone. 

His alarm's still blaring from inside the glove box, uselessly, and he switches it off, eyeing the battery indicator sidelong before quickly scrolling through his messages from the night before - increasingly vitriolic rants from Scott about Derek's training, Derek's dire but unspecific warnings, Derek's stupid eyebrows and, weirdly, Derek's hair care regimen. Stiles snorts and tosses it back in the glove box. 

It's already third period when he rolls into the parking lot and he detours to the rest-room on the way to class, splashing water over his face and trying to wake himself up a little. He's looking a little pale, dark circles under his eyes, and he really hopes he's not coming down with anything; there's an additional layer of depressing, getting sick, when your entire circle of friends can pretty much fight off anything but kryptonite. Stiles pulls and pokes at his face for a couple of minutes before giving in and heading for the hall again; it's chemistry. He would've gotten the detention anyway. 

Scott has planted himself near the back of the room, which has its disadvantages – the ample time it allows Mr Harris to harp on about all his many and varied failings while he's walking, for one – but at least allows him to slump into his chair and rest his face on Scott's shoulder without the attention of the _entire_ class. 

“Epic questing last night, man?” Scott asks, laugh clear in his voice. 

“...shit,” Stiles says. “I was supposed to. I fell asleep.” Even the word triggers a yawn, wide and all-encompassing. 

“Am I boring you, Mr Stilinski?” 

Stiles sketches a lazy salute, to the stink-eye from Mr Harris. 

“No sir. Sorry, sir.” 

“Oh I assure you, Mr Stilinski, you will be.” 

Stiles opens his mouth again, retort ready and waiting – he's never needed to be firing on all cylinders for that – but Scott slaps a hand over it immediately. Stiles glares at him, betrayed. 

“Sorry,” Scott hisses, once the lesson is back in session. “But seriously, we might need you tonight, so if you could not give him an excuse to keep you behind for the rest of time that'd be a bonus.” 

“We?” Stiles grumbles. “This 'we' would be the exclusive wolf party to which I wasn't welcome, I'm guessing?” 

Scott scowls down at the textbook, and Stiles is pretty sure photosynthesis has never done anything to him. 

“I don't trust Derek,” he says. 

“Well I do,” Stiles says, almost surprised at his own conviction. Scott definitely is, giving Stiles a betrayed glare of his own, which Stiles answers with a shrug. “Poor choices aside -” and Stiles winces, and shoots a glance around the classroom, and the look on Erica's face says that yep, he'll be paying for that one later. Stiles straightens his shoulders, determined, and soldiers on. “Poor choices aside, Derek's been pretty universally in our corner, here. Until he actively stabs me in the back I'm going with safety in numbers.”

“For which we'll need you,” Isaac says from behind Stiles. The inevitable yelp, flail and near-miss with gravity is treated with hilarity by the rest of the class and Stiles hates everyone. Just putting that out there. 

“Research?” Stiles asks. “Human shield? Planning to make me into a stylish coat?”

“Man power,” says Isaac, leaning against their table. “There's an omega running around, we need to move it along.” 

Stiles' mouth twists involuntarily, picturing a disturbed grave, the mess that had been left last time. 

“And I'm useful because -”

“Wheels,” Scott says shortly. Then he reconsiders, probably at the look Stiles can't quite keep off his face. “I could use the company?” 

“Plus Derek thinks there's something else,” Isaac says. 

“Specifically...?”

“Specifically?” Isaac grins a little. “Have you _met_ Derek? He just said something smelled off.” His sidelong grin isn't the friendliest. “Although that might just be you.” 

“Mr Lahey, back to your own table,” Mr Harris calls from the front of the room and Isaac saunters off. 

Stiles pulls out the neck of his shirt and takes a sniff; nothing but the normal teenage boy mix of Axe and sweat, so far as he can tell. He raises an eyebrow at Scott. 

“I didn't want to say -”, he says, “but maybe you should take a look at your dryer? You kinda smell... damp, I guess. Mildewy.” 

“Mildewy. I hate wolves,” Stiles says. 

*

“I hate wolves!” he yells into the trees. 

The forest is starting to come alive around him, the way it only ever does when it's just too dark to confirm that the rustling is something small and relatively harmless, not enormous and seriously stealthy. Every barest noise promises fangs.

There's been no sign of the omega, no sign of the rest of the pack and now, even worse, there's no sign of Scott. Just Stiles, and his jeep, and the slowly fading light that's seriously draining his ability to stay awake. 

“You know,” an unfamiliar voice says, too close, _too close_ , “that's not polite.” 

This, Stiles guesses, would be the omega. Not what he was expecting. She's clean, well put together, maybe a little old to be rocking those heels but seriously, who is Stiles to judge? She's also crossed her arms just to show off the set of claws she's sporting, and Stiles is no expert on wolfly etiquette but that doesn't look like the friendliest pose. 

“I,” he says, helpfully. “Er.” 

“Out here all alone, little red?” 

“Stiles,” Stiles corrects. “I'm Stiles. And you're -” he gulps as she moves, suddenly. “No fan of personal space, I see.” He scrambles away, practically falling across the driver's seat of the jeep and flinging out an arm to open the glove box and grab his... completely dead phone. 

She's laughing at him. Stiles hates when they laugh at him, it never ends well. 

“So I'm thinking you should know this is Hale territory,” he says, rapid-fire, “and they wouldn't take it well if you -”

“Gutted their pet?” she asks, tone sweet enough that it takes a moment before her words register. 

“Shit,” he moans, half under his breath, then takes in a deep breath and yells in her face. “DEREK!”

“Oh honey,” she says, all the fake sympathy practically strangled out of her voice by the smug satisfaction that's wrapped around it. “They're miles away now. It's just you and -”

Her voice doesn't fade out, it cuts off like something's stolen all her breath at once. Her eyes widen and she looks at something through the passenger side window, over Stiles' head. All of the colour drains from her face and she turns, graceless and uncoordinated, and hares on all fours for the tree line. 

All of the tiny hairs on the back of Stiles' neck stand on end and he can't turn around. He should, he's always subscribed to the belief that it's better to stare death in the teeth than to not know what's coming for you and when but he seriously cannot persuade his neck to move. Instead, with shaking hands and panic tasting like mildew in his mouth, he grabs his key, turns the ignition and slams his palm down on the horn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be written yesterday but there was an Incident with a wasp. 
> 
> Not beta read, please let me know if my tired eyes have missed any mistakes! :)


	3. Słoneczko

“For the last time,” Stiles says, losing the last thin thread of already worn patience, “I didn't see _anything_.” 

“No one's judging you,” Boyd says. It's the first time he's spoken so far, and Stiles feels a rush of gratitude mingled with the shame that's been wearing on him. 

“You would've looked,” he says, half resentfully, and Boyd shrugs. 

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Stiles insists. 

“And maybe I'd have wasted time when I could have been calling my pack,” Boyd answers, annoyingly calm, and Stiles lets out a frustrated huff and slumps back in his seat, head rebounding off the head rest. 

“Calling _Derek_ ,” Scott mutters resentfully, and Erica snaps back.

“Same thing.” 

“It is not -”

“You did the right thing,” Derek says through the window of his jeep, appearing out of nowhere, and Stiles yelps and tumbles out sideways to land at Boyd's feet. _Ow_. 

It's not like Derek is still shifted like he had been earlier when he'd raced through the clearing where Stiles' jeep was parked, sniffing at the trees where nothing was, where whatever it was had been, before racing off on the omega's trail. It's just that there's this awareness whenever he's around, something that makes Stiles about a hundred times more skittish than he is usually; something that he chooses to categorise as healthy fear of the alpha. It beats the alternative. 

“You _definitely_ would have looked,” Stiles accuses him from flat on his back. “You would've looked with your _teeth_.” 

Derek rounds the back of the jeep specifically so he can raise a judgemental eyebrow at Stiles, it seems, since it's Isaac who extends an arm to help him up. Stiles jumps up and down a couple of times and then hobbles in a circle, trying to get rid of the pins and needles from too much time holding himself rigidly motionless. 

“I'm the alpha,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes with practically his entire body. 

“And I'm a useless human, of course,” Stiles snaps back. 

“Did I say that?” 

It's snappier than Stiles can usually push him to, and he feels a hollow kind of victory. Derek turns so he can look at all of his betas, at Scott. 

“That omega wasn't some freshly turned kid,” he says. “She's canny, knows how to take care of herself, and anything that can make a grown werewolf turn and run is something all of us need to have a healthy respect for. We have no idea what it is – I've never smelled anything like it before – so from now on we're looking for the omega in groups.” 

“The omega?” Scott asks with an edge in his voice, walking forward, his sneakers crunching over the grass the only sound; Stiles is pretty sure it's no accident Scott ends up between him and Derek, back stiff and shoulders tense. “We don't have other priorities than your territory?” 

“We don't have anyone else who's seen this thing,” Derek says, shoving his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed and tone deliberately calm in a way that always aggravates Scott further. It's not an accusation, Stiles is almost certain, but it stings like one. He kicks at the tire of his jeep; it doesn't make him feel any better. 

The very last of the day's light is draining from the clearing and Stiles is suddenly hit with a wave of tiredness so sudden that he sways on his feet, almost smacking himself in the mouth as he tries to cover his yawn. The air smells thick and mossy and like something is decaying, the dark smell of fall, and he claps his hands, sound abrupt and sharp in the silence. 

“Okay, Scott, if you want a ride you're gonna have to stop with the epic wolf-off. All aboard who's coming aboard.” He clambers into the driving seat and starts the engine; it's a moment or two before Scott backs away from Derek and climbs in, still glaring through the windshield. “Seriously,” Stiles says, voice lower – although he doesn't fool himself that Derek can't hear. “Cool it, Scott. He's on our side.” 

“And you know that for sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he catches a glimpse of Derek's expression before he turns to look at his blind spot. It's a complicated expression, nuances that Stiles can't even begin to translate, but something at the edges of his mouth looks almost like he's pleased. “Yeah, I think I do.” 

*

His house is dark when he gets home and he kicks his sneakers off at the door, stumbles up the stairs and straight onto his bed, falling seamlessly into a dream. He's never fallen asleep so hard and so fast. 

In the darkness the forest is huge and ancient, stretching miles and years in every direction, even those only conceived of by astrophysicists. Stiles knows, logically, that he can't be more than a mile from the Hale house, but he's equally certain that around the next corner there could be dinosaurs.

She's calling him. Not a dinosaur, that would be ridiculous (although admittedly awesome); the omega's waiting for him somewhere. And groups, Derek said, but Stiles is just – he's just going to look - 

And he's in the clearing again, and he's seeing the expression on her face, and he knows, he knows that it's a bad idea to look but he can't seem to stop his head from turning...

Stiles fights himself awake, hitting out at his blankets and choking on nothing.

For a second he thinks he's got it, he's managed to pull himself out, but there shouldn't be shadows in corners of his room. Not shadows that shape, anyway, and the eyes are the wrong shade of red.

“What red eyes you have,” he says, with the abstract fear that is all his dreams can manage, and she steps forward into the bare blue starlight from his window. It's when he knows he's dreaming, absolutely sure, because she looks like his Nana right down to the runs in her pantyhose. His mom had cried at her funeral, Stiles remembers it clearly even though he'd been so small.

“Hello słoneczko,” she says, hint of an accent, and he yawns and tugs his covers up under his chin, feeling all of five years old and – even in his dream – exhausted by it.

“That's not my name,” he says, and she nods.

“But I think perhaps you owe it to me, for saving you from your wolf.”

“Not my wolf,” Stiles says, determined, and she sits herself on the edge of his bed, the mattress sinking under her weight; she's compact in the manner of all Polish grandmothers. Dense.

“Not the ones you run with,” she says, soothing him with the voice of his childhood. “You are a brave one -”, and the pause speaks volumes.

“You know my name,” he says, stubbornly logical. “You're the only one who ever spelled it right in my birthday cards.”

“Not your friends?” she asks, her voice taking on an odd wheedling note, and he shakes his head against the pillow.

“Nope,” he says through a yawn, “no one else knows.” 

“That is too bad,” she says quietly, sympathetic, and he's too tired to tell her that isn't quite what he means. “Poor -”

He's too tired to argue it again, filling in the name that she'd always called him, syllables fumbled out of his childhood before he falls asleep.

He hadn't know you could do that in a dream.


	4. Allison-Derek-Scott

“Stiles.”

Stiles moans faintly, buried miles deep in cotton candy and cloud stuff. Every inch of his skin and his bones and his insides cry out against it as he stirs, deceptive cloud-soft white avalanche pinning him to the bed. 

“Son?” 

There's no weight on his chest but the painful absence where a weight has been; gravity is malfunctioning and he can't move his arms, still feels like he's getting the hang of breathing. Cloud softness slides sticky threads across his eyelids and it's enough to make him force them open, because he's dreamed of spiders too many times tonight and he couldn't wake them away even once. There's a moment of panic, wrapped tight like webs around his ribs, and then the darkness eases as his dad moves the hand resting over his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, voice relieved. “You feeling okay?” 

Stiles blinks at him a couple of times, a fine tremor shuddering through his limbs, still working his way into the waking world. 

“You're a little warm,” his dad continues, fingers hard skinned and gentle against his forehead, “but whatever you've caught it looks like you've slept off the worst of it.” 

“I – yeah,” Stiles croaks, catching on molasses-slow and squinting at the clock. The hours (and hours and, geez, _hours_ ) of sleep are crackling at the edges of his voice and making the excuse his dad gave him sound a little more like truth. “Feeling a little better.” 

“You should've called,” his dad says, his brow creased with lines of weariness and a guilt that tangles around Stiles' stomach and makes him feel genuinely sick for a second. Stiles flops out from under his covers, pushes himself up a little on his elbows. 

“I can look after myself,” he insists. “I slept through it.”

“Could've at least called into school for you.” 

Stiles shrugs through a yawn, pushes himself up enough that he's sitting, scrubs a hand through his hair and then folds his arms around himself and tries to rub some warmth back into his arms. 

“I'll take in a note tomorrow,” he says, trying to be reassuring. 

“We'll see,” his dad says in his sheriff voice, and Stiles frowns and takes him in properly for the first time. He shouldn't be in uniform, not at this time, not after a night shift. 

“You're going in again?” He doesn't mean to sound so plaintive, blames the shiver in his voice; he kind of hates himself for the wince it prompts. 

“For a while.” The mattress shifts as he gets up and Stiles swings his legs out of bed, hating the cold but far too tempted to follow the roll of it back into lying down, back into sleep. 

“You need sleep,” he says, stern, and his dad laughs. 

“You take care of that for both of us,” he says. “A body was found last night; drifter, they think, and it doesn't look like - but there's a few too many animal attacks around Beacon Hills and I've got to -” he gestures towards the door and Stiles nods and – monumental effort – pushes himself upright and overbalances into a hug.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, and his dad echoes him, back slaps and a gentle shove back in the direction of the bed. Stiles waits until he hears the front door close before he's yanking on jeans and shirts and hoodies, fumbling in his pocket for his phone and then rooting around under discarded clothes and chip packets for the charger. He has to sit down while he's plugging it in.

“C'mon,” he says impatiently as it inches its slow way through charging enough to turn on, “c'mon come _on_.” 

Missed calls from Scott, when it finally flickers into life; a call from Isaac, text from Lydia, weirdly, and something typically curt from Derek... and Stiles isn't exactly sure when the latter left him feeling shorter of breath than the former. Lydia's been years in the building, how would she feel to be thrown over so easily? (He's honest enough with himself to know she wouldn't care – maybe that's a part of the explanation, right there). 

A few more minutes and he figures he can risk it, dialling Scott's number and listening to the soft burr of the ring tone. 

“Allison?” 

“Stiles.”

“Stiles! Are you okay, man?” 

“Define okay,” Stiles says, then before Scott can – he has a seriously literal mind, at times - “I'm good. Fine. We have omega problems.” He repeats what his dad had told him as he unplugs his phone and traipses downstairs, shoving his feet into shoes. “Whatever else we need from her I think it's pretty important we find her soonest.”

“So I should skip lacrosse?” Scott asks, to his credit only sounding a little plaintive; he's getting better at priorities. 

“So you should skip lacrosse,” Stiles says, firmly. “I have an idea how we can catch her.” 

“Illegal or dangerous?” Scott asks, resigned.

“Probably both,” Stiles says, and grins, hangs up on Scott promising to make it over as soon as he can so he can dial again while his phone's still got juice. 

“Derek?” 

“Still Stiles, Isaac buddy. I have a job for you...”

*

It's like deja vu all over again; the dark, the rustling in the undergrowth, the gleam of yellow eyes and the sinking feeling that he's just screwed this up so, so badly. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, lifting a hand in a useless wave, looking quickly over his shoulder and backing up one step, two. “You still haven't left.” 

“I've been avoiding your alpha,” she says, and there's a little less of a tease in her voice this time. “And you still haven't learned any manners.” 

“Hey,” Stiles says, indignant, “I resemble that remark.”

There's absolutely nothing nice about her smile. _Teeth_ , Stiles thinks, unhelpfully, and thumbs the unfamiliar phone-weight in his pocket. He stumbles backwards again, edges around to the left like he has a hope of misleading her, of getting away if she really chooses to chase. 

“I wasn't expecting you to find me quite so soon,” he says. “Good job on that.” 

“Waiting on reinforcements?” 

He pulls out the phone and waves it. She laughs when he catches a glimpse of the phone, when he visibly shrinks into himself when he looks at the time, taking a couple of hurried and overly careful steps backwards. 

“You know, I'm almost sorry we don't have time to play,” she says, which is creepy as all hell. “You really are a pain in my ass.” 

“Wait 'til you get to know me,” Stiles says. “You have _no_ idea.” 

The omega's nostrils flare, her head tilting to one side, and Stiles swears just loud enough for her to hear as she looks down, eyes narrowing, and he back-pedals hurriedly. 

It's the same sort of trap that had been set by the Argents, had yanked Scott off his feet so easily. She runs her finger along the wire and Stiles isn't close enough to see it fraying but he has no illusions about the sharpness of her claws. He swallows, hard. 

“You know,” she says, not looking up at him, “I think I'm going to enjoy this.”

“My pack -” Stiles says faintly. 

“Is not here,” she says, and springs forward from her crouch, taking a direct line where Stiles had run crooked, crossing half the clearing in one leap and landing on the uneven moss-covered ground. 

“My pack has a backhoe,” Stiles finishes, with not a little smugness, over the sound of breaking branches. 

*

“Scott,” Derek says tersely, and Stiles huffs out a breath. 

“Emphatically still Stiles,” he says, frustrated. “Don't any of you have caller ID?”

There's a pause and a shuffle. 

“You're calling from Scott's phone,” Derek says, and that's right; there was a flashing empty battery, and Scott had insisted. 

“I'm calling from Scott's phone,” Stiles says, and feels a little like an idiot. “But that's not the point.”

“There's a point? From you?” Derek asks, and Stiles likes to think he's not imagining the trace of humor in his voice. 

“I got you a present,” Stiles says. 

“...a present.” Derek's voice is heavy, tending towards the suspicious. “What present?”

“I'm not telling,” Stiles says. 

“You went after the omega,” Derek says flatly, and that's definitely anger in his voice. Stiles grins a little. 

“No hints,” he says, a yawn stretching out the vowel. 

“Stiles,” Derek insists, “is it the omega?” 

“Scott's on his way to get you.” 

“Did you go up against a werewolf on your own?” The 'you idiot' is implied. Stiles likes to think it's affectionate. He hums a little tune and laughs a little when Derek growls and hangs up, his eyes sliding closed. Just for a minute or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty of stealing a joke from Skulduggery Pleasant. :D

**Author's Note:**

> This really isn't intended to be a long one so it should be finished before the end of the week (depending on work-related exhaustion and the possibility that it will evolve a more complicated plot...) 
> 
> Not beta read due to lack of people falling down the Teen Wolf rabbit hole with me. :D
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](http://slothturtle.tumblr.com/).


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